


True Partnership

by fawatson



Category: The Sandbaggers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Neil Burnside is caught in Saigon in Spring 1975.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goosecathedral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goosecathedral/gifts).



> **Request** : 
> 
> I'd be happy with a story about any one of these characters: you don't have to include them all. I love this canon for its treatment of institutional intrigue: the office-bound episodes are every bit as compelling as the carefully-rationed action. 
> 
> I'd really enjoy a story about Burnside's past: (grammar-)schooldays, his service in the Marines, his decision to join SIS, his Sandbagger days, his courtship of and married life with Belinda. Something that explored the class differences between the middle-class Burnside and the Wellinghams would be fantastic. 
> 
> Or post-canon: the last episode leaves Burnside utterly discomfited and outmanoeuvred: what happens next? One of the things that interests me about the series is its downplaying of sexual tension, but if you want to ramp it up, be my guest: I think Burnside's emotional repression leaves the sexual field right open -- I can definitely read him as a closeted bisexual or gay man.
> 
> Matthew Peele might just be my favourite character, combining pedantry and fussiness with a surprising ruthlessness on occasion. I'd really enjoy something in which he takes a leading role, and his clubbable mediocrity turns out to be a strength. Or post-canon: how does he emerge from the aftermath of 'Opposite Numbers'?
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> (1) In “An Unusual Approach” (Series Three – Episode Three) we are told that Bob Cheever saved Neil Burnside’s life in Saigon in 1975. 
> 
> (2) Baihao yinzhen is a Chinese white tea. 
> 
> (3) _The South China Morning Post_ is an English language newspaper established in 1903 in Hong Kong. _The China Mail_ , also a Hong Hong English language newspaper closed down in 1974.
> 
> (4) At the time of the fall of Saigon in April 1975, Saigon’s Continental Hotel (built 1890) on Tu Do Street was called the Continental Palace. Graham Greene was a long-term guest in Room 214 in the 1950s. Tu Do Street was renamed Dong Khoi Street by the North Vietnamese after they took control of the city. 
> 
> (5) Cantonese seafood soup is common within Hong Kong. Hundred flower Cantonese seafood soup, or (百花 . 海皇羹) is one of its variants – For further information please see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantonese_seafood_soup. The ‘chow mein sandwich’ which consists of crispy chow mein in a hamburger bun originated in the United States in the 1930s or 1940s; for further information please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chow_mein_sandwich
> 
> (6) Saigon finally fell and South Vietnam ceased to exist as a separate political entity on Tuesday 30/04/1975. 
> 
> (7) The ‘Hanoi Hilton’ was an American nickname for Hỏa Lò Prison where American POWs were kept during the Vietnam war. ‘Operation Homecoming’ commenced in 1973 and saw American POWs repatriated to the United States as a part of the negotiations ending direct American military involvement in the Vietnam war. For further information please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U.S._Prisoners_of_War_during_the_Vietnam_War. POW bracelets were created in May 1970 with the intention that American POWs in Vietnam should not be forgotten. People who wore the bracelets promised to leave them on until the soldier named on the bracelet was returned to America. For further information please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/POW_bracelet
> 
> (8) Cliff Underwood appears in “Who Needs Enemies (Series 3 – Episode 6) as the Head of Madrid Station who commits suicide. He is described by the CIA Octopus printout as a “quiet unobtrusive man with a deep knowledge of his station.”
> 
> (9) _Le Monde_ is a French daily left-wing newspaper. For further information please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Monde . In 1975 what is now _Der Freitag_ was named _Sonntag_. It is a German weekly newspaper which expresses left-wing political views. For further information please refer to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Der_Freitag Sonntag
> 
> (10) Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND for short) is the foreign intelligence agency of Germany. In the 1970s it was not well respected; the kidnapping and murder of athletes at the Munich Olympics in 1972 which led led the agency to build counter-terrorism capabilities. For further information please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federal_Intelligence_Service_(Germany)#1970s

Mathew Peele was savouring a cup of baihao yinzhen when his aide brought him the urgent communique from London. His sniffed slightly as he read it. The operative, it seemed, was already in Vietnam – had, in fact, been sent there several days ago. Of _course_ he had not been informed sooner. The thought that the Operations Director should inform the Head of the closest station when an op was being planned for his area never seemed to occur to the people undertaking Mission Planning. He was to “render all assistance necessary” if called upon. Given the distance between Hong Kong and Vietnam, and the complete lack of established transport links now that the Americans had pulled out their military, Peele profoundly hoped none would be needed. Still, Matthew thought, however late, it was better to be informed that an op was in progress, than not to be told anything at all. 

Peele poured his second cup of tea and opened today’s edition of the _South China Morning Post._ He rather missed _The China Mail._ His daily walk along Wellington Street just wasn’t the same these days without it. But one must move with the times, even if they were not _The Times_.

* * * * *

In the Hutch, Willie grabbed the latest transmission eagerly. He would normally have taken this op (and had, in fact boned up on the Far East, been briefed about the situation in Laos and Vietnam, and orientated to Saigon in anticipation of this op). But, when the go-ahead finally came down from C, he had been running a temperature of 102.3° and was confined to bed with the latest outbreak of flu. He had read somewhere that the Americans were working on developing a vaccine. It couldn’t come too soon for him. His temperature might now be down to normal, but Willie still felt lousy and had had to stop for breath half-way up the stairs this morning.

Neil had gone in his place. Their contact in Saigon was under suspicion and couldn’t wait. So Neil, who had at least been to Thailand two years before, was sent. Three days later, news came their contact had been discovered and shot by North Vietnamese who now held parts of the city. But Neil was already running; there was no way to recall him. He was carrying a radio, but had strict orders only to use it once he had secured his target. There was no way to send help either: the long circuitous sea-and-land route Neil was taking would take be too slow for a second operative to reach him in time; and there was no way to get anyone else in quickly. Tan Son Nhat Airport had been shelled and the Americans were evacuating the last few of their own nationals by helicopter. Numerous cups with the dried residue of bad coffee attested to the long hours Willie had been on duty, waiting for word from the Senior Sandbagger – or (though he sincerely hoped not, given the likely implications) - news _about_ him. What he really wanted was to be there, not shuffling paperwork in London.

* * * * *

Burnside sat behind a wall of straw bales in a warehouse on the outskirts of Saigon that was being used for storage by the army. As ‘safe houses’ went it left a lot to be desired. To the legitimate users of the building, it simply looked as though a plentiful supply of straw had been stored there, filling half the warehouse space. Only those who had prepared the hiding place knew that behind the straw was a narrow ‘room’, one man’s width in diameter. It provided a place of dubious safety, right under the noses, so to speak, of the people now in charge, given the building had been requisitioned by the occupying North Vietnamese army. Neil had amused himself the afternoon of his arrival by estimating just how many people this ‘safe house’ could, theoretically, harbour since, regardless of how narrow it was, it ran the full length of the warehouse, and also the straw wall went right up to the pitched ceiling. If one stacked people on top of one another….

He was, by morning, just grateful that his was the solitary body finding refuge here. The hiding place contained a few bottles of water and some tins of corned beef, sufficient for one man for a couple of days, but wholly inadequate for more than one person. Fortunately, in the scramble to escape capture he had not lost his pocket knife as the keys to the tins were missing. He had quickly realised sanitation facilities were non-existent. He sat at one end of the space; he could smell his own excrement from the opposite corner. Creature comforts were limited to whatever could be fashioned from the straw barricade that kept him hidden from people coming and going in the main warehouse, in other words: nothing. The bruises he had acquired when clambering (falling) over walls as he escaped the chase had not been helped by a night on a chilly concrete floor. 

At two places in the straw wall, bales had been stacked with a very slight gap, just wide enough to allow him to peek through to keep watch on what was happening on the other side. That, plus the crack on the other side, where two corrugated iron sheets met but were not welded together (thus affording him entry, and – one hoped – eventually exit) were his sole sources of light. In short, he waited in the dark, alone, hoping for rescue. It was a situation that lent itself to panicked speculation. Burnside prided himself that he never let his imagination get out of hand. But his initial relief on reaching this place had long since given way to gloomy paranoia, something of an occupational hazard for a Sandbagger. The matter was out of his hands. 

Their chief contact might be dead but nonetheless, Neil had retrieved from its secret hiding place, the document listing sympathisers and informants SIS had on their payroll, their code names, radio frequencies, and locations. The paper was too sensitive to keep on his person, especially when there was a real possibility he could be caught and searched. He had photographed then put a match to it, just ahead of pursuit. Luckily one of his trackers had been clumsy enough to stumble against a barrel; the noise had alerted him just in time to evade capture. He had taken a circuitous route to the Continental Palace on Tu Do Street where he felt a sense of satisfaction at the fitness of his hiding place as he placed the film behind a light fixture in Room 214 before heading in the opposite direction (ditching the miniature camera in a pile of rubbish in the street as he ran). 

In due course he had found his way to Saigon’s Notre Dame Cathedral, where he had mingled with others who sought respite there, trying to look one with them, not an easy feat given his white skin and well-fed look. He had known his opponents were on his tail though – could feel it. Those who were successful in ops gained a sixth sense about that kind of thing. Although he had not stayed long at the basilica, Neil had managed to slip up to the top of the north tower and radio the location of the film and an alarm code, before one of the priests realised the door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked, and had chased him out. Still, his job was done; now he had to trust to the boss for rescue. He knew heaven and earth would be moved; the problem wouldn’t be will, it would be whether or not there was a way.

* * * * *

“Even if it were possible, I wouldn’t hear of it,” Peele said firmly to Sandbagger Two.

“With all due respect, Sir,” Willie protested, “I come under the aegis of D.Ops, not the Station.”

“I am well aware of the lines of authority,” Peele returned, “but for you to get from here to there you need _my_ assistance; and let me make it completely clear _I am not giving it_.” 

Willie thought he sounded positively petulant. It would never do to say that, however. 

“Have you considered what HQ will think, Sir? They’ve sent a Sandbagger halfway round the world, and you refuse to help him cross the last few miles.” 

“Whatever makes you think I have not already discussed this with C, that I do not in fact have his full support?” 

Peele frowned at the younger man. 

“Mr Caine, I can see you are a loyal colleague of Sandbagger One but it is time you appreciated that the circumstances that led London to send you ‘halfway round the world’, as you put it, are very fluid and potentially very volatile, and _have changed_ since you boarded your plane at Heathrow. “

Peele stood up and came round to the front of his desk, to stand in front of Wlllie. “Your sentiments do you credit, but mounting some kind of badly thought out last-minute rescue mission is simply not right in this instance,” he explained. Peele moved to the stand by the door and collected his hat. 

“Well, we can’t do _nothing_!” Willie exclaimed. 

“There is very little we can do.” Peele’s voice was calm, “except wait for an opportunity to develop where we can assist, and trust to Mr Burnside’s ability to stay clear of capture until such an opportunity presents itself." 

“But you can’t be suggesting –”

“Speak to my aide; he’ll see you are kept apprised of all developments in Vietnam and find you something useful to occupy your time meanwhile. For now, I must be off. I have a longstanding engagement to lunch every Friday with the Head of the American CIA in Hong Kong.”

* * * * *

“You are the only foreign power with any real presence in Saigon at the moment,” Peele explained over his 百花 . 海皇羹.

Not for the first time Jeff Ross sighed inwardly, reminding himself of the virtues of patience while he listened to his English counterpart’s earnest reiteration of facts Ross already knew all too well. Saigon was a fiasco – an unmitigated – totally _unsalvageable_ – write-off. Cheever had radioed 24 hours ago that the bungling incompetence of the delayed evacuation had led to the CIA list of informants falling into enemy hands and reprisals were inevitable. If he helped SIS retrieve their list, and – luck permitting – their agent, it would be worth at least a dozen favours in the next few years (not to mention the Special Relationship would mean that whatever SIS knew, the Americans would also know, so they didn’t _need_ to run their own informants and could enjoy watching SIS take all the risks). 

Ross took a few bites of his chow mein, while letting the flow of Peele’s polished and oh-so-reasonable arguments wash over him. The man had ordered in Chinese (it was perfectly possible to get round in Hong Kong without the local language; using the native tongue was just showing off); he had ordered soup (and not just _any_ soup but some special kind that had made the waiter’s eyes light up and sparked animated gabble between him and Peele) and he sat there talking nineteen to the dozen but still eating his soup _without spilling a drop_! (Several noodles fell off Ross’s fork before he managed to convey it to his mouth. _Why_ for God’s sake didn’t they just put the damned stuff in a hamburger bun?). Ross looked up to meet shrewd eyes watching him back and revised his estimate: half a dozen favours.

* * * * *

Neil woke from half-sleep, choking and coughing, desperate for air. Willie had clearly been very generous with his germs before he retired to his sick bed. He did not think his shivering that was entirely due to the ambient chill of an unheated warehouse and cold concrete floor. He sneezed, then sat very still, trying to swallow his next sneeze as he realised someone outside was listening.

There was a shouted command in Vietnamese. An urge to cough built inexorably as Burnside sweated with effort to hold it back. Carefully he twisted off the cap of his water bottle, upending it to swallow a sip of water, and, as the cough burst out regardless, stuffed the tail of his shirt in his mouth to muffle the noise. There was an answering cough, a loud, harsh and grating, barking noise, followed by two loud sneezes on the other side of warehouse wall, a terse command in Vietnamese, and then a few French words. More coughing – shouted commands and clearly apologetic responses. Another sneeze and a loudly cleared throat - the sound of two people moving away from the building - then silence. 

Burnside continued to wait, quiet as a mouse, nose streaming, but unwilling to blow it until he was sure the immediate danger had passed. Until he was sure all hope had passed too, for surely that timely cough had come from his would-be rescuer. He had no way of knowing how long he sat before, finally, there was a slight scraping sound and someone squeezed past the loose corrugated metal sheet that formed the back wall to Neil’s hiding place. Neil felt for his revolver as the intruder crept closer. 

“Welcome to Vietnam, old man,” drawled a quiet American voice, as the tension drained from Neil’s shoulders, “can’t say much for your choice of hotel, though I suppose it beats the Hanoi Hilton.”

“Have you come to oversee my Homecoming,” asked Burnside wryly, laying down his pistol, “or just to check my details for a bracelet?” He saw the American squatting in front of him grin, and held out his hand in greeting, “Burnside, and I am very pleased to meet you.” 

“Bob Cheever,” came the reply. “The feeling is mutual.” 

Burnside grimaced. “That sounds a bit ominous. In a spot of bother are you?”

“Not really,” Cheever explained. “Saigon is no vacation paradise, but the Company did provide me with a way out of this mess. I’m here as a journalist with Le Monde, you know.” He switched effortlessly, “parlez vous Francais?”

“Un peu.” 

“Yes, but your accent is terrible.” Cheever shook his head. “Remember, the natives here speak frog like froglets. You’ll be spotted in an instant. Any other languages?” 

“Deutsch, mein Herr.” 

“Better; if we’re stopped the NVR and Viet Cong won’t be familiar enough with that to spot the accent.” 

“What’s the plan?”

“The NVR are letting foreign non-combatants left behind evac to the south coast – not officially, you understand, but they aren’t enquiring too closely as long as we go quickly and quietly and find our own passage. But there are checkpoints both inside Saigon and on the roads south, so I daren’t move you until you have the right papers,” Cheever explained. “I can sort those pretty quickly though. Then you come with me.”

“I didn’t think there were any foreign nationals left in Saigon,” Burnside remarked. “I thought the airlift rescued them all.”

“Most, not all, old man. There are always a few stragglers; and we need to join them PDQ as the American Seventh Fleet isn’t going to remain off the coast for very much longer.” 

Cheever reached into his back pocket and offered Neil a small plastic comb. “Tidy your hair and smile: you’re on Candid Camera!” Cheever opened the toggle clasp of his small backpack and pulled out a Polaroid camera, taking several pictures before he was satisfied. The camera was tucked back into his pack and two bottles of water, one of those tiny bars of soap provided in hotel rooms, and a hand towel were handed to Neil. 

“Clean yourself up a bit. No one will think anything of you being a bit rumpled, but there are limits. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* * * * *

“Is it always like this?” Willie asked, as he filed one report from an informant and picked up the next to read.

“Like what?” 

“Well, so _dull_ ,” remarked Willie. “I mean, I’m used to long boring hours spent in the Hutch at HQ sifting through documents but this makes _that_ look like a day at the races. How do you stand it?”

Cliff Underwood laughed. “Where do you think those documents you read in the Hutch come from?” 

“I know but….” Willie shook his head. “There’s knowing your station and knowing your station – I mean _really_ – every newspaper - _every_ rumour?”

Again Underwood laughed. “You know, I wasn’t keen on this posting when it was offered. Too far from home and I couldn’t see the point when all my background and training has been in European politics. And Maggie wasn’t too keen either on leaving the children behind, no matter how good the boarding school. But I’ve learned a lot from Matthew Peele about running a station and about how vital it is to nurture all your sources, because you just never know when one obscure detail might prove vital.”

Willie shrugged, conceding the point. “Care for a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa.”

Willie perused the selection on a trolley near the door. “And no decent coffee, either!” He waved his hand at the electric kettle, teapot and selection of tea canisters. 

“Don’t let our Head of Station hear you say _that_. He’s very proud of the range we offer,” Cliff retorted. “Besides, you can hardly call the instant coffee they serve at HQ ‘good’.”

Caine sat back in his chair looking very disgruntled. “This, I spent 16 hours travelling for!”

“No, _this_ you came to Hong Kong for.” Matthew Peele stood in the doorway, sour look on his face, holding out a piece of paper from the telex machine. “The American agent in Saigon has made contact with Sandbagger One at the safehouse.”

* * * * *

Neil stretched, touched his toes 20 times, did a few push-ups, and then sat down again. There was a limit to how much he could move around, but he had to remain alert and periodic exercises had their uses. If nothing else, it stopped him thinking too hard while he waited.

He had originally thought the timing of this op convenient when it first arose. Belinda wanted to have a baby; he had always assumed that someday they would have children. After all, most women wanted children at some point. He might not himself feel any strong paternal urges, but he didn’t completely reject the idea of having offspring. But, of course, being a Sandbagger was not really compatible with having children. Inevitably, along with talking about plans to have a baby, Belinda had been singing that old refrain about changing his job. 

“A transfer into the Foreign Office would do your career so much good,” she explained. “Daddy would see you got on all right.” 

Of that Neil had no doubt, if, that is, he was prepared to have his career stage managed by Wellingham. It led to the usual quarrel; at least when he slept in the spare bedroom he knew Belinda wouldn’t get pregnant. Breakfast conversation the next morning was decidedly chilly. The Cold War clearly existed at home as well as work. 

So he had been relieved to be sent to the Orient. There had just been sufficient time for a quick phone call home to let Belinda know he would not be able to accompany her to their weekly evening meal with her parents, before he took a cab to Heathrow and the next flight to Singapore. Like all experienced Sandbaggers he had a small holdall in his locker with a couple of changes of clothes, and a shaving kit. 

No cold remedy, unfortunately, and while he had brought one freshly laundered hanky, it had proven inadequate to the streaming head cold he had now developed. Neil’s nose was dripping again. He wiped it on a little loose straw which he threw across to the corner that stank of urine. Bob Cheever couldn’t return too soon.

* * * * *

Caine had to give Peele credit: he definitely knew who to call when he needed a favour. Hong Kong had everything, including it seemed, a Bundesnachrichtendienst counterpart to the SIS Head of Station, just as there was an American CIA presence here. Not that the BND was held in much respect. They were improving, but the international intelligence community knew they still had a long way to go before they would be anything but country cousins to SIS, let alone the Americans. But they, it seems, like the CIA, had an operative in Vietnam, posing as a journalist. (Were _any_ of the foreign correspondents in Vietnam actually journalists?) The BND man was carrying extra papers – conveniently authentic, with authorised signatures and official stamps, but without photographs. A little gentlemanly negotiation later – plus a fine gift box of speciality tea sent to the German Ambassador’s lady wife – and a directive was sent to provide papers for one Dieter Strombank, a journalist with _Sonntag_.

And Willie found himself on the next flight home. 

“Hong Kong is about to be overrun with refugees,” Peele announced, and I expect to be far too busy to babysit a Sandbagger. And Cliff will be far too busy also, because his posting as the new Head of Station in Madrid has just come through and he has a lot to finish up between now and when he leaves next week. 

It had been a long way to travel just to see the inside of a Station Office.

* * * * *

Neil was deeply thankful as he boarded the sail-powered fishing ship. Smelly with fishy remains, encrusted with brine, and crowded as it was with refugees trying to escape reunification, nonetheless his first sight of it had been extremely welcome. He watched as the fishermen who owned the little vessel cast off and felt intense relief as the boat headed for the South China Sea.

“A toast, Dieter?” 

Neil turned to see Bob Cheever holding up his bottle of precious water, now much depleted from their slow journey southeast from Saigon. Neil had tied a string round his own bottle and looped it round his neck. Now he too opened his nearly empty water bottle, touched it to Bob’s in salute, and drained the last of the liquid. 

“A toast to what, though?” he asked. “It seems to me we accomplished little in the end. Your CIA list was stolen before you even arrived, and my SIS list had to be abandoned.”

“But that’s just where you’re wrong, old man,” said Cheever, and he pointed to his left shoe. 

“Oh?”

“Just where do you think I was staying in Saigon?” 

Burnside smiled, “Of course – where would any secret agent stay: the Continental Palace. I hadn’t realised we were running a joint op.”

“The best kind of op,” asserted Cheever, “involves a true partnership of like-minded equals whose strengths complement one another. Knowledge on _your_ part,” he tipped his bottle in salute, “and escape routes on my part, and…” he fished in his pack and brought out a silver etched hip flask, “the finest bourbon to celebrate.”

Burnside laughed as Cheever tipped a generous amount of Jim Beam into his empty bottle. As they got drunk together and Cheever taught him ribald songs, it occurred to Neil that he felt greater affection for this grubby American that he had known less than a week than he felt for Belinda after a year of marriage.


End file.
